


At thy will

by deepandlovelydark, Tanista



Series: Second Chances [31]
Category: MacGyver (TV 1985)
Genre: Assassins & Hitmen, Domestic, Epistolary, Existential Crisis, Fluff and Angst, Humor, Letters, M/M, Multi, Pizza, Polyamory Negotiations
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-30
Updated: 2018-02-05
Packaged: 2019-03-11 07:21:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 10,562
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13519290
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deepandlovelydark/pseuds/deepandlovelydark, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tanista/pseuds/Tanista
Summary: Darryl Tollefsen. Lori Saperson.Murdoc's used to encountering resistance from his targets.Not so much from the beneficiary, though.





	1. Chapter 1

“Grahme’s the most difficult of the three,” Murdoc says to Ashton. “As far as MacGyver’s concerned, the more the merrier, and Dalton is entirely on my side now I’ve acquired a pilot’s license. He can be quite technically-minded when he cares to put in the effort, but refuses to do so except for aeronautics. Which is, of course, the one discipline under the sun that makes MacGyver turn pale and ask to leave the room. So it’s a pleasant change for him, to have somebody who’ll listen to endless babbling about his obsession.”

They’re relaxing in a New Jersey safehouse: his sister’s first foray into secret lairs. He’s very proud of her. (Barring minor technical errors, but he’ll inform her of those by post. It’s a system that’s worked well for them over the years, conducting all arguments by letter.)

“So much for my romantic entanglements. But I have yet to break down Grahme’s reserve,” Murdoc observes. “Her usual method of expressing affection is to overwhelm the subject with physical contact, and that’s certainly yet to happen.”

“You wouldn’t enjoy it if she did,” Ashton points out, with wry pointedness. She removes the videotape from the machine, starts rummaging through their unwatched pile. “Which year next? 1981? 1974?” 

“1969.” Acquiring recordings of every extant Eurovision Song Contest hadn’t been the easiest task, but their collection is finally complete. 

“I never did understand what you see in Lulu. Too fluffy for my taste.” She pops the tape in and sits down on the other side of the sofa. “I think you’ll find Becky’s willing to tolerate you, if only for her uncle’s sake.”

“Tolerate, certainly. But it’s almost a professional challenge- if I can't bring her around, who else will I be unable to charm? I should hate to think I’m losing my touch.”

“Then you might start calling her by name more often. She’s fond of hers, and you never do use it.”

“I find this practice of calling relative strangers by their Christian names, thoroughly unappealing,” Murdoc says, coughing. “Still, I suppose we’re past that point...Becky. Becky Grahme.”

“Just Becky will do.”

“Would you consider informing her,” he says, with sudden enthusiasm, “that my use of her first name is not to be interpreted as carte blanche for her to use mine? She has been playing the Game long enough. I should hate to imagine the consequences if she's stumbled across it by mistake.”

“Of course I’ll do that. Winifred.”

The look of brotherly exasperation Murdoc shoots her is one that a certain Angus MacGyver would have found awfully familiar. 

************

The next time Becky is at the ranch (just a flying visit before her next mission in Luxembourg, with MacGyver helpfully absent on a fishing trip), Murdoc goes to the trouble of moving his portion of the sectional next to the rest of the sofa. Instead of across the room from it.

Dalton notices his pronounced trepidation (so much for his usual composure), and ignores instructions by plumping himself between the two of them. Their television watching continues without further incident; the pilot always indulges himself with the ripest, most risible programming possible, whenever MacGyver’s not around to make cutting remarks. Becky raises no objections.

It’s rather thoughtful of Dalton, and honestly a relief. So much for that angle of attack- but really, he’s an assassin. Not a cuddle object. 

“Can you imagine going back in time and telling our past selves where we’d be now?” Becky asks, as she refluffs her pillow during an advert break. “All those years in Mission City, that we spent worrying ourselves sick about whether we’d manage-”

“Watching Mac frown at my taxi and telling me to give it up already,” Jack agrees. “And my begging him to keep it running just a little longer, because if I splashed out for a new one I wouldn’t be able to afford a plane.”

“Lucky for you that he was around.”

“You think I’d have bothered with a taxi service at all, if I wasn’t best friends with a mechanic? I can handle a plane, but cars are something else again.”

She laughs, then glances over. “I’m sorry, Murdoc. We’re kinda leaving you out of this conversation.”

“No harm done. I never object to hearing more about MacGyver’s past life.” The more disastrous it was, the sweeter their current situation must be by comparison. 

“Or that time I helped rescue you from the river, remember?” Jack says. He picks up a bottle filled with amber liquid, and sprays it enthusiastically over the bowl of popcorn. “I must have drunk my way through a whole pot of hot coffee to warm up- and I’d already changed into dry jeans, before realising that somebody might ask why Mac just happened to have a pair in my size. Lucky thing it was Sergeant Olson there and not any of the other cops.”

“I dunno. He was always kinda suspicious of you.”

“Because I’m a conman, that was his job. But he didn’t harry the two of us just for the hell of it- whoops. Sorry, Becky.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Becky says. “By the way, what’s that?”

“Something your uncle rigged up for me. Caramel flavouring spray- he can’t help being a barista sometimes, he spent too many years at it,” Jack says with a chuckle. “Not that I’ll ever say that to his face.”

“What’s this story about a rescue?” Murdoc asks. “I haven’t heard it before.”

“Some kids threw me in a river in midwinter, I nearly drowned, but fortunately I didn’t,” Becky says, quite dispassionately. “Bullying, you know?”

“A rather extreme example, wouldn’t you say?”

“Suppose so.” She takes a handful of sticky popcorn and munches it. 

Well. 

“I could go out and slaughter them, just to be on the safe side,” Murdoc says helpfully. 

He’s not expecting she’ll say yes, but there was no need for her to be that disgruntled about it. 


	2. Chapter 2

The more he hears about this drowning incident, the less Murdoc likes it. 

He can’t make sense of Jack’s uncertain recollections (Becky is understandably reluctant to discuss it). Why continue with a murder attempt in front of a witness, why the sudden finale to a bullying campaign that had apparently been tailing off?

Why not finish the job properly?

It could have been mere Midwest teenage boredom; Becky herself seems content with that explanation. But paranoia is a useful life skill for people who persist in living on the wrong side of the law; and his instinct on these matters has been shaped by years of protecting Ashton. He would never, ever have permitted anyone who threatened his sister's life like that to carry on unperturbed. 

So. 

The only question is, will he have company on this mission or not?

*************

"Why bother?" MacGyver asks. Characteristically direct, that. 

While noodling on his guitar, playing around with a few chords that Murdoc recognises, with mild surprise, to be his own. 

"Were you looking at my notes? That song wasn't finished yet."

"Mighta been," MacGyver concedes. "Thought I'd see what I could make of it."

It’s a neat piece of irony that he has more free time to spend practicing now than he ever did in Minnesota. MacGyver had, after all, started in the business at an age when most people would be retiring; Murdoc quietly sees to it that his lover never gets the opportunity to overwork himself. Their fiscal situation’s healthy enough, and HIT isn’t overburdened with jobs these days anyhow. This post-Soviet slump is a long way from the heights of the ‘80s, when anybody with the right haircut and a Washington press card could set up as a secret agent and have the CIA believing them, inside of six months…oh yes. If he’d had MacGyver back then, they’d probably be dictating an entire banana republic by now. Not that he particularly wants to run a country; but it’s an amusing thought. 

“You always take out all my little flourishes.”

“You write perfectly good tunes that you go and overcomplicate with the little flourishes,” MacGyver retorts. “Listen, I think it’ll work a lot better if you dump the middle eight. What’s it even doing there?”

“Being. I happen to enjoy a good middle eight.”

“Hush, you.” 

He plays through the song, without the middle eight and in minor key, which makes the whole thing sound melodramatic and tragically young. Murdoc’s about to protest vociferously, before he catches MacGyver’s amusement and realises he’s being gently teased. 

Change of plan. “I look forward to your performance of this for Becky. Do be sure to tell her how you’ve improved it.”

“Maybe I will,” MacGyver says, with a grin. “You still haven’t answered my question. Why bother killing a couple of Becky’s old schoolmates?”

“They did try to kill her. Don’t tell me you didn’t want revenge at the time.”

“Okay, at the time- yes. These days though...you know what turns me off the idea? The fact that I could go ahead and kill them.”

“Excuse me?”

“Just what I said. It was one thing saying to myself, oh god, these two idiots nearly took away my Becky, I wish I could get at you- but that’s because there wasn’t a damned thing I could do about it. These days, when I could have my pick of weapons and escape plans and advice from you how to pull it off successfully? I don’t really feel I need to.”

“I wonder, though, if those two might still be a threat-”

“Never,” MacGyver interrupts, “underestimate the American teen’s capacity for sheer mindless hostility. Ask Jack about the time he got tied to a picnic table during homecoming- actually, don’t, he won’t appreciate my bringing it up.”

“If you don’t elaborate on this table incident, I shall be positively forced to slake my curiosity by asking him.”

MacGyver sighs. “Some high school seniors got tired of the prices he was charging for illicit liquor, and decided to get some of their own back. So they bought a litre of beer off him, then made him drink the whole thing...though actually, he managed it and got quite the reputation for being able to hold his liquor. People were impressed and went easier on him after that. Not that I could exactly recommend that anti-bullying tactic to Becky.” 

“If it was Dalton telling this story, I wouldn’t believe it,” Murdoc says. “Even accounting for conversion, I should expect a comatose bootlegger. Or at least, an extremely sick one.”

“Well. It did help that he’d watered it down so much...”


	3. Chapter 3

“Geez, I’d forgot all about that incident,” Dalton says, contemplating his beer. He shrugs and finishes it off. 

(If MacGyver had bothered to consider the implications of what he was saying, the man would have realised that mentioning yet another set of people who’d threatened the safety of their Texas enclave was a misstep. 

Is he going to have to wipe an entire Minnesota county off the map, before this is over? As Ashton has frequently told him, his sense of proportion isn’t his strongest point.)

“I’d rather doubt that. In my experience, people tend to be quite good at remembering life-threatening circumstances.”

“Yeah, but we get into those how often now, every two weeks? Not counting flight time with you.”

It’s not often Dalton gets the chance to be patronising. He tolerates the remark. “But what I want to know is, were any of your harassers likely to be a threat to you now-”

“Oh, the whole thing was worth it just to watch Mac save the day. I got to be his first rescue.” Said, with a smile and a slightly nostalgic hiccup. Dalton’s a trifle drunk. 

“I’m sure that MacGyver comported himself with his usual speed and cunning, but what I was asking-”

“Y’wanna hear this story or not? Count yourself lucky that I’m sober enough to remember it.”

It’d been a calculated risk, bringing the topic up at the Dirty Dog; but it was either here or in their airplane, and his attention span doesn’t quite stretch to a serious conversation while piloting. Not yet, at least. Mid-afternoon’s a safe enough time, with the place empty except for an understanding barkeep. Well-compensated, of course. Cheapness is not one of his vices.

“See, you were never around during homecoming. A harvest festival and a high school reunion and church social and all that kind of thing wrapped up into one, last big hoo-hah before winter sets in. Fried things on sticks. Come to think of it, I’m surprised you never did go. The craziness would have been right up your alley.”

“MacGyver told me it was much ado about nothing, and I’d be expected to praise a considerable quantity of nonsense.”

“That’s about the size of it. I used to make a killing every year, selling off watered-down liquor to the other high schoolers. My Uncle Charlie- now there was a guy. Makes me look like a model of decorum. If he hadn’t been foolhardy enough to make off with that tuba...hang on, this isn’t the right story. Never mind. The bit Mac leaves out whenever he tells this, is that Zoe Ryan and I were running off with each other so often that year, nobody noticed when I disappeared. Mmm. Zoe. Definitely the one that got away,“ Dalton says sentimentally. “Treasure hunter extraordinaire, last I heard. We oughta get back in touch one of these days.”

“On your own time. The story, please?”

“Right, well, when Zoe started trying to chat Mac up, obviously he noticed I wasn’t around and he got a hunch and caught up just as I was having the last of the beer shoved down my throat. Not very tasty stuff, but better than the moonshine I’d brought along. Uncle Charlie was not into quality for quality’s sake, know what I mean?”

“I believe I can guess.”

“It was so cheap, in fact, that Mac managed to set a bottle of it on fire, so he could scare everyone away while he got me untied. And maybe he cooked up a Molotov cocktail or two, just to put the bow on. I dunno, I was drunk as a skunk by that point.”

Murdoc takes a notepad out of his pocket. “So just who were the individuals involved, again?”

“I don’t remember,” he says, with a glitter in his eye. “Doubt I will tomorrow morning, either.”

Murdoc glares at him. A typically Dalton ploy, at once shrewdly assessing and annoyingly soft-hearted. Also rather suggestive of what he’d say about a plan to eliminate Tollefsen and Saperson. No use asking him for assistance. 

Or was that Tollefson? These Scandinavian spellings will be the death of him.


	4. Chapter 4

Nicholas Helman. Chief Executive of HIT. 

It is, after all, a registered nonprofit. 

"I won't be more than a month," Murdoc tells him, as they sip their double Scotches. "Less if all goes well, but I don't intend to hurry this one. If any juicy commissions come up, do feel free to pass them along to MacGyver." They're actually quite unusual in undertaking dual missions. Most of HIT's freelancers prefer to work solo. 

"There may not be much for him to do," Nicholas says, leaning comfortably back in his armchair. "The day of retribution finally cometh. I'm winding HIT down at last."

"So you've been insisting for the last ten years. And yet you're still here."

"I mean it this time," Nicholas says, with benign indifference. "Sonja's furious, of course, but I've seen what happens when a would-be takes over a franchise. They screw it up, the authorities get involved, and somebody ends up chasing down the originator before it's over. If she's going to carry on, she'll have to do it without my blessing." 

Murdoc allows himself the luxury of a palpable frown. Helman's second has always distrusted him, though he's never challenged her position. She likes power, enjoys manipulating people for the sake of it. He prefers the more hands-on side of the business. 

"Let's face it, there's no room for an off-beat group like HIT these days. The cowboy days are over....the mood's all about consolidation. Mergers. Monopolies. Nobody with- well, with your background, say, would be able to get a foothold today. Between the Russian mafioso and the Phoenix industrial machine, it's all go big or go home. I'm going home."

Except for the DXS, Murdoc thinks, and privately congratulates himself for getting Ashton in there. And Becky, by proxy. "Twilight of the gods? You never made the mistake of underselling yourself, to be sure." 

"Or overestimating myself, which is the harder part.”

"I notice you're not thinking of asking me."

"Why would you? You have your retirement nicely set up, from what I hear...Murdoc, you and I have made a good thing out of this business. I should have left it ten years back. You might take a hint."

"Or not," Murdoc says, glancing casually at the lady who's come along to refresh his drink. It's the polite thing to do in a naturalist household, since pointedly averting one's gaze is considered ill-mannered. And manners- barbed, sarcastic, quite insincere manners- are a thing he adores, when he isn't in maniacal mode. 

(Nicholas has implemented a rather extreme way of ensuring that nobody who comes to see him at home is armed.) 

The servant nods at him, in bored indifferent fashion. Puts down a fresh ice bucket, which Murdoc ignores. 

"Perhaps I'll seek gainful employment elsewhere. With the Phoenix Foundation itself?"

"With Nikki Carpenter? You might find that injurious to your health."

"Well. Certainly not the DXS. I'd never be able to look myself in the mirror again..."

If Nicholas means it about his retirement this time, this is a matter for distinct concern. He's drawn MacGyver into a life of deranged, pulse-pounding adventure - whatever is his lover going to do, if their supply's cut off? Something to think about seriously, when he's back in America. 

"It's ironic, you know. If you had retired ten years ago, I'd doubtless be asking to join you."

How casual, after all these years. The simple acknowledgement of his long-cherished desire, stuff of a thousand and one dreams. Now thoroughly extinct. 

"You might have done. Despite your talent...even after years of you and MacGyver proving me wrong, I still can't agree that the business allows for a paramour. So how extraordinarily resentful would you have been then, if I'd asked you to choose between us?"

His sixteen year-old self would have drooled at the offer. Handsome, worldly-wise Nicholas, so richly endowed with everything worth having. 

"Oh, I don't know. You might have asked regardless."

"Murdoc, the timing was always wrong. You came along precisely when the sameness of it all, arranging one murder after another, was starting to get to me- oh, you've no idea how I appreciated your wide-eyed perspective on the Game. Thirsty for my knowledge, keen to learn the ropes. And so curiously- not innocent, perhaps. But whole. Thoroughly integrated, as the psychologists say. Was I going to risk removing you from that pedestal, for the sake of a few casual fumbles? So I put it off, and off again...and then you came in babbling about a crazed barista one day, and I saw I'd missed my chance."

All that Murdoc can think is how completely, how thoroughly, Nicholas has managed to misunderstand him, after the whole twenty years they've known each other. Integrated personality, indeed. 

How charmingly naive. 

***********

_My dear Innocent Spy,_

_I trust you won't take the salutations too seriously. Formalities to be maintained...you know, I often find myself pondering on the essential conservatism both by supporters of the status quo and insincere reactionaries alike. If there is no grandiosity overwrought statue of the Great Leader in the public square, what on earth is the anarchist to aim his bombs at? Our post-Cold War waters are troubled indeed._

_You, of course, could not care less about my philosophical rantings, and merely require to know why I should have taken it into my head to communicate with you, sans your uncle's softening intercession. The trouble is, my dear Becky...why, a belated regret. Mistrust of my past actions. A sincere desire to, if not quite atone for my days of ill-doing, at least to retire from them and rest in peace. That is, as much peace as is possible when Dalton is liable to take out his plane either night or day._

_I beg of you, do not take your usual tack of immediately offering up any and all conundrums for your uncle's consideration. This affair is quite embarrassing enough already without that._

_You see...well, I'm afraid I listened to no one's advice about your two childhood tormentors- and perhaps you'd say it was only my just desserts. It wasn't very difficult to track them down. A dirty, rundown little flophouse, in the fading glory of a storied city's downtown. (Address available on request, should you happen to require it. Which you may!) Living together in unholy bliss._

_The top of their building has a- not quite a roof garden. But a place to leave various potted flowers, and our two Minnesotans availed themselves of its isolation quite frequently. I rented myself a room directly opposite and fetched along an air-gun. All in readiness. Up I went, one gentle eventide, opened my window for a clear shot at their entwined silhouette..._

_I despair of describing that moment. The sudden rush of a cool, stirring wind against my hand. Voices raised in song- our lovers were singing a childish little round to each other. Wedding bells and moss-covered gravestones._

_A sudden taste of blood in my mouth._

_I tossed the gun aside and caught the next flight home to Texas. Dalton's been pampering me since, and worrying rather about my subdued state of mind._

_You see, I'm a perfectionist. If I was unable to kill them, whatever the circumstances, whatever the provocation to show mercy, it means I've lost my touch. I couldn't trust myself to take another mission now if I wanted to, and the mere thought of one sickens me. MacGyver will have to go out alone next time...for if I am now capable of hesitation, of uncertainty and self-doubt, it will come across all too evidently the next time we're in a tight spot. And as you know very well, weakness in this Game gets one killed._

_(It's to your credit that you've turned your weakness into a strength; but I should never acquire that knack at my age.)_

_My dear Becky Grahme._

_What, in the name of heaven, am I to do now?_


	5. Chapter 5

_Dear Murdoc,_

_Your letter comes as a surprise to me. Due to your line of work I know how difficult you must find it to share your secrets and doubts to anyone, so I'm a little perplexed as to why you've decided to write me this confession of sorts, much less ask for retirement advice._

_Since we're suddenly trading confidences, you know full well I've never really trusted you, ever since you swanned your way into Uncle Mac's life back in Mission City as Jacques. Not that I could've convinced anyone there was more to you than met the eye as you played your role so masterfully, if with a bit more flamboyance than was perhaps strictly necessary. (Thanks for the later advice on creating and maintaining covers, by the way. Came in handy a few times on missions.)_

_I didn't exactly have the heart at the time to share my suspicions anyway, back then. Your presence brought a touch of glamour and excitement into Uncle Mac's life when it was sorely needed, and for that in retrospect I thank you. I'd never seen him so enthused- and downright pleased- about anything before he met you._

_Please bear this in mind: I love him more than anything else in the world, and I always will. He's everything to me, and if he's hurt in any way I will hunt you down and kill you. The same goes for Jack, by the way. Are we clear on that?_

_I wonder, though, why you didn't think to wait until June to abduct him, so it'd be after my graduation? Or did Unc make the decision for you, since there were those Phoenix Foundation agents watching the place after he spoke to Pete Thornton (whom I met later, briefly, on a dusty road in the middle of nowhere)? I 'm Innocent, not naive. I paid attention, back then._

_Anyway, only Jack and Penny were there to celebrate with me, and Uncle Mac was sorely missed. I must admit, however, that the gold pendant that I received in the mail the next day- with the tiny diamonds set into a beautiful design of the moon and stars and the engraved message on the back- was especially lovely._

_As we're being honest, I can't for the life of me understand why you decided to go after a couple of kids who bullied me back in Mission City. Granted, it was an unpleasant period at a time when I was still adjusting to life in Minnesota; I even caught pneumonia as a result. But in the end I survived, made friends and grew stronger. In the summer Uncle Mac even taught me to swim, so I wouldn't be caught unawares ever again._

_I suppose I must thank you for exercising restraint. I was mad for a while that they got away while the rest of their gang were punished, but it's not worth having their deaths on my conscience. Though I admit their ignominious end in that flophouse does give me a certain sense of satisfaction, after all this time._

_Is that honestly the only way you believe you can curry favor with me? We'll never be close enough to cuddle, I accept that. Nevertheless I think we can maintain an amiable enough relationship all the same; we both love the same men, after all, though naturally in very different ways._

_Perhaps there are other things we might have in common. Reading, perhaps, as you know I'm still quite the bookworm. Then there's music; Uncle Mac tells me you're quite the composer, and he's played some of your works. Have to admit I'm very impressed. Is that something you might consider pursuing? Austin has an excellent orchestra and symphonic choir; I remember reading an article in the paper last week that mentioned they were looking for a composer-in-residence._

_As I don't know anything else about you aside from what little Ashton's told me- and I thought I was shy and reserved- I can't honestly give you any further advice than that regarding your retirement plans. I've no doubt you've got more than enough money and capital stashed away to live comfortably anywhere in the world you choose. Though for my uncle's sake- as well as Jack's- I hope you consider staying at the ranch. The place just wouldn't be the same without you._

_Yours cordially (dare I say friend? maybe not yet),_

_Becky (aka the Innocent Spy)_


	6. Chapter 6

_Nobody can prove anything_ , Murdoc thinks, as he peruses the letter. 

Well, they could prove some things- that the Tollefsen-Saperson situation wasn’t quite as dire as all that (a nice little apartment complex, not exactly a flophouse). Perhaps they’re even married; he hadn’t stayed around long enough to find out. 

But he had gone out with an airgun, in the perfect position to shoot the two of them, and nobody can prove that he hadn’t had a change of heart up there. 

Even MacGyver. For whom it's all for, in the end. 

(It always is, isn’t it?)

****************

“You want to come back to Phoenix?” Nikki had asked. Incredulity had virtually dripped off the question. 

“With MacGyver. Yes.” Least said, least given away. 

She had regarded him for a full fifteen seconds, and then- 

“You know what? We’re always talking about the Game. Let’s play an actual one, for a change.”

A dusty Monopoly board, with half the pieces missing. Nikki selects a top hat. He gets a shoe. They play, him with boredom, her with fervoured intent, shaking the dice madly and thoroughly. 

He’s first to lay down a few houses. Puts up a hotel. Nikki just watches, waits.

The next time he lands on one of her properties, she grabs his hotel and plunks it on her own spot. 

“Excuse me, but have I fundamentally misunderstood the rules of the game?”

“You have.”

She takes the rest of his houses, piles them on the little square of cardboard. 

“You quit. People don’t quit from Phoenix, that’s reason number one.”

Nikki grabs more houses from the bank. Buries his piece underneath them. 

“Reason number two. Pete Thornton.”

She drops one more red hotel on the square. Cheap plastic thing. 

“Reason number three. Because we can.”

“Allow me to say, your thought processes aren’t precisely illuminating.”

“We’ll take MacGyver,” Nikki tells him. “I’ll look after him myself, if necessary- he’s got into the business in an odd way, but it’s worth a trial. You aren’t. I want you out.”

She starts moving all his cash to her pile. 

“You know what kind of power Phoenix can wield. Imagine if we took that cute Texas ranch away from you, with eminent domain. Imagine if we dug up some charges on that Jack Dalton of yours, threw him back in the slammer. Imagine if I put out a few contracts.”

There go his properties, too. 

“Imagine my taking away everything from you. You’ve made the classic mistake, accumulated enough you’d hate to lose it. You couldn’t blackmail me like this, you know,” Nikki says, dark and sincere. “I have nothing left to lose.”

She takes his shoe, and tosses it back into the box. 

“Go home to Texas, and don’t ever be caught near the Great Game again. Is that understood?”

“This is totally unreasonable.” 

“That so?”

And she inches one eyebrow upwards, with an irony he’s never even seen on her.


	7. Chapter 7

He's always been a light sleeper; but now it's more elusive than ever. Brief and unrestful, and he has no time to spare for dreams, now. His mind won't stop. 

Never mind trying to fix this situation; Phoenix isn't a force he can reckon with. No, his problem is just to keep MacGyver out of it. 

Which MacGyver will not do, if he learns that his continued happiness and access to Phoenix missions is dependent on blackmail. Best case scenario would be forswearing Phoenix altogether, losing his place at the table. Worst would be trying to take on Nikki Carpenter- and with the full weight of the Foundation behind her, that's a losing position from the start. 

No: MacGyver can't know. 

He can't crawl off and disappear like a wounded animal, as instinct pleads with him to do; Nikki will think that he's trying to wriggle out of her bargain. Unfairly imposed, but she'll keep to the terms if he does. Not unlike her mentor. 

So stay in sight he must; but he can't stay in Texas. There was the little matter of a bargain with Jack Dalton, concluded on strictly utilitarian grounds. MacGyver may think he's had the last word on that. MacGyver's also noticeably ham-fisted with relationships, and has seen Dalton as his sweet best friend for too many years to recognise how tough the pilot can be, at need. (Dalton probably hasn't noticed himself, to be fair.)

It would, of course, be the ideal opportunity to pursue other interests, if he had any. 

He doesn't. Such was the peril of constructing an entire sense of self-hood about a profession now forbidden him; he has no comprehension, none at all, of who he is without it. Or how to get by alone. 

(All right, so he does compose songs and play tolerable piano, and he knows within an inch exactly how competent he is, and how distressingly inadequate it would be as a life's work rather than a hobby.) 

MacGyver is returning from HIT's last mission tomorrow. He has very little time left. 

So it'd been Grahme's letter or nothing. To tell him what to do. To offer a  miraculous, good, kind-hearted solution....and instead, he'd recieved a missive that was nothing more or less than what he deserves. 

Not very helpful. His repentance clearly didn't suffice; or perhaps she simply doesn't believe him. Maybe he's lost his knack for lying- in which case, it's long past time he was out of the game anyway. 

"To recapitulate," he observes out loud, while he frets MacGyver's guitar. (An outrageous arrangement of "Everybody Wants to Rule the World". It'd seemed apt.) "To recapitulate, I cannot go, I must not stay, and above all things, I have to maintain a convincing lie to the person to whom I've taught every last trick I know for bluffing."

That's the easiest part, actually. The well-told lie will save MacGyver's life; therefore he'll tell it. Not a problem. 

No, the issue is everything else....


	8. Chapter 8

“I’m making pizza,” Dalton says with enthusiasm. “With lots of salt and cheap cheese - maybe this time, I’ll get it to taste as good as the kind you get delivered.”

“May I ask why you aren’t?”

“Oh. Mac says it’s healthier to do it yourself.”

“Ah.”

Typical ludicrousness: but Murdoc finds it undeniably pleasant, to ponder in their terra-cotta kitchen while Dalton’s making a mess of the place. Stirring rosemary and thyme into tomato sauce is nicer than musing over this reply. 

Though it completes itself eventually, seeing as he hasn’t anything more important to do. 

_Dear Grahme,_

(that makes him feel better already)

_I shalln’t be irritating you with another such letter, but I did feel it obligatory to clear up a few small points. You need hardly express either your gratitude for my aiding your uncle, or your determination to murder me should I cross him; rest assured, I take both as read. Hardly the most subtle of spies, my dear Innocent, but honi soit qui mal y pense...I have not the slightest notion how you get by in life without so much as the odd white lie, but it does seem to be working for you._

(That’s just cheek; of course Grahme’s lied on occasion. She must have done.)

_MacGyver did not quite appreciate the motto, but as I was paying for the diamonds, I felt I had a right to insist on the engraving. As for whether the timing was of my choosing...well, you say you observed those two agents, to the point of being able to identify them as Phoenix. (Do you speak in hindsight, was Thornton contemplating hiring you as well as your uncle, or were the two simply that inept? I’m more than prepared to believe any of those.) I’ve no doubt that you’ve also talked to Gant, about my years of enmity with Thornton (for pity’s sake do, if you haven’t yet; I should so enjoy someone hearing about my record who’ll know how to appreciate it). So don’t make me belabour the obvious, Grahme. Drawing people out under guise can be an excellent interrogative technique, but only on the unsuspecting._

_As for our bohemian friends- yes, I’ll agree to having erred there. Obviously I ought to have left them for you to kill; that is your prerogative. Whether you choose to exercise it or not._

_Consider, though: the sanest way I’m capable of relating to you is as a younger, rather less worldly version of my sister, and I should certainly have done the same for Ashton had I been taken aback by similar news about her past. She would doubtless have appreciated the favour no more than you, now I’m thinking of it. I suppose it’s high time that I stepped back and allowed the pair of you to make your own mistakes. And your uncle, for that matter._

_As for my retirement plans...why, I must needs amuse myself somehow. Keeping my silence, for instance._

_Wishing you every success in a bad business,_

_Murdoc_

The letter’s done; so is the pizza. He takes the slice pressed upon him.

“Yeasty as ever, Dalton. You do get thoroughly overexcited about the stuff.”

“Maybe I shouldn’t have used the beer culture,” Jack agrees. “But I figured, what the heck...so are you done now? Everything cleared up?”

“For the moment.” Which is to say, nothing is cleared up; but there’s no more correspondence to reply to, at least. 

“Great. So I can ask you- what’s going on? I’ve never seen you this down in the dumps about anything. Even the time- no, whoops, you asked me not to mention that again. So I won’t. Totally not talking about it.”

Dalton’s as soft as this pizza dough, but for all that, he can be remarkably soothing. “I have been considering whether my entire life’s work was merely one horrendous error of judgement. Rather late in my career for a stab of conscience, but true nonetheless.”

Jack whistles. “What’s Mac gonna say?”

“Quite. I have not been looking forward to his return. In fact...perhaps it might be better if I wasn’t here. I shouldn't care to contaminate him with my second-guessing.”

“Don’t leave. No way should you be alone right now.”

He’d hoped against hope that Dalton would say something like this, conciliatory or even loving, but this authoritative, straightforward tone takes him aback. “Why not?”

“Because sobering up is bad enough without doing it solo. I don’t really know what kind of freaky high you and Mac get off your missions. But I do know what it’s like going back again and again to the thing that’s killing you, because you can’t seem to face life without it. If I never went whole hog alcoholic in Mission City, it’s because Mac was always around to whack me into shape- and you’re gonna need me to pass on the favour.” 

He grabs another slice from the pizza in front of them, cheerfully stuffs it down before continuing. “Trust me on this. It feels high and lofty and tragically important now, but there’s gonna be times when you’re just slumping so hard and really want another hit- um, sorry- and those days, you ought to be here. With as much love as we can give you. And let’s face it, I’m home more often than Mac is.”

“You invited me here only because I’d be able to look after MacGyver. I can’t do that, if he’s in the field and I’m not.”

“Shucks, is that all you were worried about? Been a lot of water under the bridge since then...look, I like to think of myself as basically a nice guy. Occasional smuggling and hanging out with assassins aside. Helping somebody work through ‘hey, maybe I shouldn’t be killing people anymore’ seems like a pretty nice thing to do.”

“I should think ostracization would be a more appropriate reaction. If not a call to emergency services.”

“Not for deranged Jack Dalton, it ain’t. You gonna have any more of this pizza, before I get carried away and finish it off?”

“By all means, enjoy. I am going to order us a more edible example of the breed.”

“So considerate, and yet so cruel. Now that’s the saucy Murdoc I love.”

“Love?”

“I’ll step it down to ‘got used to having you around’, if that makes you feel better- you know what? I didn’t realise how much I could get to missing you until the Colorado escapade. Wasn’t all wanting feather pillows and takeaway, you know.”

“Only mostly,” Murdoc says. He wants to see a trace of anger. Rejection or disbelief, like Becky’s letter, given that he possesses no right whatsoever to kindness. (He is in severe danger of believing in his own part. Always his virtue and his downfall, as an actor and an agent.)

Jack just smiles, secure in his own self-deprecating humour. As coping mechanisms go, that one is well-nigh irrefutable. 

“Yeah, you got a point there. Can I put in a bid for cheesy breadsticks? They got this great new way of pan-frying them, with garlic butter and a cinnamon dipping sauce...” 

This is how his career dies. Not plummeting off a mountain, not burning to a crisp, not failing beneath a hail of gunfire. 

No, it dies to cuddly Jack Dalton and his cheesy breadsticks. 

“Welcome to Mission City,” Murdoc murmurs to himself. “You can check out any time you like…”

“Say what?”

“Never mind. Do you know, I don’t believe we’ve ever been formally introduced?”

“Huh, no? Lemme guess! I bet I can guess.”

“Go ahead.”

Jack considers. “Bob.”

“No.”

“Dick?”

“No.”

“Harry?”

“You will be at this all night,” Murdoc tells him. “Up until dawn’s light, over our greasy takeout, and you will fall asleep muttering how you haven’t guessed it yet. And I will, ever so quietly, whisper it into your ear, and you will jolt upwards, stare at me in disbelief, and chase me half the way to Houston for letting you go on so long.”

“Sounds plan-shaped. I’ve had way worse Friday nights.”

“Are you even going to let me have the last word?”

“Now, would that be any fun?”

_I’ve spent the better part of my life making sure my lover didn’t go crazy, and maybe after thirty years I got more used to it than I figured. Mac really doesn’t lean on me like that, these days. Romance and fun and pancake breakfasts, sure, but not needing me with mad, lusty, horrifying desperation._

_Murdoc’s going to._

_And god help us both, but this might be kinda fun..._


	9. Chapter 9

_Dear Murdoc,_

_Feel free to write back any time you like; I must admit I've come to like our correspondence. It's easier to converse with you this way without either my uncle or Jack present, so we can both be honest without worrying about hurting their feelings. (Yes, I know you worry about that, else you wouldn't be wondering what to tell Unc about your impending retirement.)_

_Speaking of which- I apologize if my previous letter seemed unduly harsh, but your writing to me in the first place came as something of a shock, much less your seeking advice and absolution. Ash tells me (and you know how perceptive your sister is) you're in the middle of something of an existential crisis- you've been in the Great Game since you were 14 apparently, and now you want out. Already I've come to realize that when one enters the Game one's never allowed to leave it completely behind, unless it's in a body bag. I hope whatever exit strategy you've come up with you use with extreme caution if you want to stay alive, and I honestly hope you do. Stay alive, that is; without you Unc would be completely devastated, and I doubt Jack and I would be able to pick up the pieces by ourselves._

_Even someone like Gant- a career bureaucrat who as you know stumbled his way into the business by mistake- will never really get to escape from the Game. And yes, he's told me about you and Thornton- he knows about our connection, too, through my uncle. When applying for the DXS I had to put all my cards on the table, so to speak- I'm still amazed they accepted me after such an extensive background check- so in a sealed, encrypted section of my dossier are the facts of my relationship to the two most dangerous assassins in the business and one fly-by-night smuggler._

_Oh, and how I knew Unc and I were being watched? Simple. After four years in a small town working in a coffee shop I came to know everyone pretty much on sight, and the Phoenix agents stood out like sore thumbs. They tried to blend in, but the minute I saw them hanging around outside for hours on end I knew something was up. (Told you I paid attention back then, didn't I?) Before you ask, Unc never told me about the deal he made with Thornton; I found out after the fact, hidden within my scrap bag. I burned the note after reading, lest the cops think I was complicit._

_I figured you had something to do with the inscription on the pendant; that's how I knew you two were still together. Cheeky of you, I must say: honi soit qui mal y pense indeed. I've had to tell plenty of white lies in the past, especially to deflect suspicion away from Unc's relationship with Jack. (Small town, small minds. Not a drop of tolerance in the bunch, and I'm glad we're all well rid of them.)_

_Within the business, it's not that I never lie- have to do that when the mission requires, after all- but I don't completely tell the truth, either. There's a difference between lies of commission and those of omission, is there not? A slight one, granted, but a difference nonetheless._

_As for my work-name, did Ash ever tell you how that came about? During boot camp (or three months of hell, as I fondly call it now) there were several fellow trainees who vocally doubted I had what it takes to be a spy, the loudest being the son of a Senator who felt himself entitled as a consequence to speak his mind and get away with it. In short your typical bully, like Tollefsen and Saperson._

_(And as a side note I repeat no, I'm not going to kill them. I don't want their deaths on my conscience. They're frankly not worth it.)_

_So the Senator's son- he would've made good Marine material if he hadn't wanted to play the Game instead- kept making snide comments whenever I was around, about my height, my glasses, my general appearance and demeanor. Too innocent-looking to be a spy, he laughed. I did my best to ignore him but one day I'd finally had enough (and my period had just begun- Unc can tell you how bad my temper gets at that time of the month)._

_Fortunately this was during one of our training sessions in hand-to-hand combat. Long story short, once it was our turn to spar I laid him out flat, hands behind his back and all, in under two minutes. You can imagine the look of surprise on his face, someone half his size taking him out so quickly. After that he stopped making fun of me, and the instructors started teaching me how to turn my apparent disadvantages into assets. So in a way being called the Innocent Spy has become a badge of honor, so to speak, and a reminder to myself and others that things aren't always as they seem in the Great Game.  
_

_If you must call me anything I suppose Grahme will do, although I wouldn't mind either if you used my full given name, Rebecca. Most people outside of friends and family call me by either one, now. I see it as sort of a compromise between formal and informal, and in your case I can live with that._

_Yours cordially,_

_Rebecca_


	10. Chapter 10

The next day, while Jack dozes through his post-lunch siesta (he’s yet to guess the right name, despite heroic efforts), Murdoc reads over the latest fax and finds himself rather surprised. Shocked, even. 

Since when has Ashton allowed anyone to nickname her? She’s his own sister, and she’d never have tolerated that from him. 

But clearly the two of them are thick as thieves, these days, if Ashton’s been gossiping about him so much. A deeper friendship than he’d ever anticipated; or the famous DXS loyalty he’s heard so much about. Chrysalis should have destroyed that, but the calamity seems to have simply reinforced it, among those foolhardy enough to stay. Certainly Grahme's taken it to heart, spilling her soul out to Gant like that- Edward Gantnor, for heaven’s sake, universal laughingstock. The only player in the business who’d even think about taking on an apprentice with such a firm aversion to bloodshed, true, but trusting him...Ashton had certainly done a better job of hiding her own connection to HIT.

Or had she?

Perhaps Ashton is using Grahme as a stalking horse, letting him know in typically overcomplicated fashion that Gant knows all about his record- in which case, he’s very grateful that his sister had only joined the DXS after Chrysalis. Or Nikki Carpenter would be in possession of far too much information about his background. Not a comfortable thought, but if he won’t be taking on any further missions, it may not even matter.

The ironic thing is that, contrary to Grahme’s concerns, he probably can retire from the Game in peace. If Phoenix wants him out, out he’ll be. Barring a few little grudges and odd matters that he can take care of himself, that is. Unless he’s lost his touch to an even greater degree than he’s realised…now, that’s one of the things he’s always envied his protege for. MacGyver runs his missions on pure instinct, and yet consistently gets what he wants. That beginner’s luck ought to have run out long ago, but it hasn’t yet.

Whereas he might be younger, but he’s much too old for that. 

Come to think of it, why Ashton’s casual acceptance of his qualms? As if she’d seen this coming, even before he had- was he really behaving like a man having an existential crisis? Before hearing about the closure of HIT? Before Nikki Carpenter had put the kibosh on his accepting any further missions? 

That last visit. Full of his chitchat about MacGyver taking up with a band of eco-terrorists, and Dalton trying out craft beers, and his attempting to make friends with Grahme, of all people- perhaps he had been unduly gossipy. Uncharacteristically, even. Twenty years ago, he wouldn’t have let anyone stop him from playing the Game as he wanted, not even Ashton. Maybe this change of heart has been coming on for longer than he’d realised. 

He lets himself believe that, for a little while. 

He’ll need it when MacGyver arrives. 

*************

_Salutations, and so forth._

_That seems the safest mode of address. All things considered._

_Have no qualms about my withdrawal from the Game; I shall take all suitable precautions, I assure you. Though your insistence that MacGyver would react so badly to my untimely demise seems romantic, at best. I assure you that if forced to a choice between you or I or Dalton, it would certainly not be a former Mission City inhabitant to face the chop. Besides which, it’s common knowledge that a well-off widower survives the blow much more easily than a penniless one._

Actually, he had better consider their finances a little more carefully; he hadn’t counted on a retirement this abrupt, or running expenses for light aircraft, or looking after a third party (or even a second, until a very few years ago). But then, MacGyver and Dalton are a decade older than he is; and statistically speaking, an ex-barista playing at espionage ought to die an untimely death sooner rather than later. No need to worry Dalton about reining in his spending habits just yet. 

_I’m not quite so sure as you that Gant’s problem is an inability to escape from the game - to all accounts, he’s clung to his position with a firmness of manner remarkable in a man otherwise so easy-going. But then, no doubt you know better than I._

No doubt she does; and perhaps he’ll be able to draw a story or two out of her. Just for the fun of it. 

_So MacGyver left a note about his dealings with Thornton? Colour me surprised. I should have thought he’d have the sense to leave proper names out of the discussion._

That one is puzzling. He’s always assumed that MacGyver had told his niece the straight truth, about rushing off for a pleasure jaunt with an assassin. Perhaps without mentioning which side of the law the assassin was on, to be fair. But clearly that can’t be right; not if the man had specifically left word about the Thornton deal. Taking down HIT and turning in one assassin-for-hire Murdoc, in exchange for a cushy position at Phoenix...Grahme has never expressed regret at MacGyver’s noticeable failure to do so. That is, she hasn’t within his hearing, which come to think of it means absolutely nothing. 

No, this doesn’t add up. Not twenty-four hours after MacGyver leaving that note, he’d calmly abandoned all intent of working for Phoenix, and thrown in his lot with HIT...In which case, why write it at all? A change of mind, accompanying the change of scenery? Or possibly, MacGyver had simply lied to his niece about what the deal entailed. 

Or perhaps he’s the one who’s been mislead, rather than Grahme. Which would suit the balance of probabilities. Had the conversation in that Minneapolis hotel room been one long and canny bluff, based on the same guesses that Grahme herself had made? Or worse, had it been nothing more than a devious Thornton script, carefully told to garner his sympathy?

Because all of Thornton’s dreams have come true, posthumously. HIT is closing. He’s out of action. Dalton’s made the odd comment or two about MacGyver flirting with Nikki Carpenter, once upon a time...have he and Nicholas and the rest all fallen for a Phoenix trap? Was the DXS in on it as well? Does Ashton know?

“You are not behaving like a man who has lost any of his fascination with the Great Game,” Murdoc says aloud. “Get back into character, at once.”

He shall have to stop writing Grahme. Too many secrets, too much temptation to fall right back into his old ways. And if he pursues it any longer…he’ll have to start mistrusting his lover. 

And he would far rather be lied to by MacGyver, then be told the truth by anybody else. 

There’s a click at the door, of a penknife twisting in the lock. Unmistakable calling card. 

What is he going to say?


	11. Chapter 11

MacGyver’s a little annoyed, as he pulls up by the house- why couldn’t Jack have come picked him up from the mission as usual, instead of making him fly commercial? Even if they can afford first-class tickets these days. 

Hot and humid out here, and his shirt’s sticking to his back as he flicks the lock open with his knife. Air conditioning, that’s what he wants. Some of Jack’s chocolate-chip cookies, and a post-mortem with Murdoc, if he’s back yet-

somebody’s around; he hears the faint smack of fleeing footsteps as he enters the kitchen. Without even thinking about it, MacGyver gives chase, all the way up to the bedroom ( _you better not be after Jack, buster_ ) and yanks the door open. Jack is fast asleep and snoring hard, with Murdoc resting next to him. 

“All right, who’s here? C’mon out and show yourself.” 

Jack grunts but doesn’t stir; Murdoc sits up. “Nobody’s here, MacGyver.”

“Don’t give me that. Somebody was running away-”

“I did.”

“What the hell for?”

“He’s sleeping,” Murdoc says, gesturing towards the happily snuffling pilot. “Do lower your voice.”

“Then let’s leave him to it. I want to talk.”

“I want to stay. Just talk quietly, that’s all.” 

MacGyver throws himself on the bed next to the pair of them, takes Murdoc’s hand and feels it trembling. The guy is not acting like the effortlessly self-confident assassin he’s grown accustomed to. “Okay. So the mission was fine, thanks for asking. This guy in witness protection wanted to make an idiot of himself, by going home to see his family. I went along just to make sure nobody hit him. Went pretty well, I only had to off a couple henchmen- you gonna even pretend to be interested?”

“I don’t quite know how to say this...no, I do. I simply don’t want to hear about it. I- I’m having a crisis of conscience.”

“Huh. Nicholas’ retirement caught you off-guard that badly?”

“Something like that.”

“Okay, well, I’ve got an idea about that. Phoenix is where it’s at these days, so what I say is, we bust our way in and make ‘em hire us. You know, like you did to Pete Thornton. Bet we could do it again to Cindy Finnegan, what d’you say? Everybody at that place hates her guts, we’ll be welcomed as heroes.”

“MacGyver, I don’t think you understand. I’ve lost my taste for murder.”

“Of all the times for you to lose your nerve! When you were the one who taught me the business- is this because of Nikki Carpenter, by any chance? Did she threaten Jack or something?”

“No, of course not. Does it strike you as likely that I’d knuckle under to someone else’s authority, after the sort of life I’ve led?”

“Just seems like kind of a pity, that’s all. Cos the thing is, Cindy got in touch with me, and she’s already offered me a gig. No questions asked, just one condition. I have to make sure that you’re out of the game.”

He caresses Murdoc, treats him to a long, lingering smile. Watches a certain sick fear break over the man’s face.

Now, isn’t that funny? 

When Murdoc had been the one to teach him this look…

*********

Curiously, it’s Nikki Carpenter who Murdoc finds himself thinking of, as he numbly submits to unwanted fondling. Nikki Carpenter, who may hate him avidly, but in the end had kept faith with her former partner…

unless she’d taken MacGyver’s measure, and predicted that a sudden access of virtue would only inflame his once-protege’s passions. He can reject that now, go with this wild plan to take down Phoenix (with his knowledge and MacGyver’s luck, it’s more than possible). 

Or he can double down, on a lie contrary to his entire life. Not even he can make this one sound convincing.

In the silence, he huddles away from MacGyver, curls himself around Jack’s reassuring bulk. “Tell Cindy I won’t go on any more missions. Tell her I’ll just stay here with Dalton and not bother anyone.”

“What the- you turnin’ suicidal on me, or something?”

“No.” He does not have the courage of his new-found convictions; he wishes to live, very much. 

“I think maybe you are,” MacGyver says, sounding puzzled. “Because I know better than to trust any promises you’d make. So if you won’t help me take down Cindy, well...as you’ve pointed out yourself, you’re a lot more of a bastard than most of the people I kill.”

No lie will save him this time. It’ll require a truth. 

One truth, to save his life, something he can offer MacGyver to show that there’s a living, hopeful person here. A personality that can look to something besides murder yesterday and tomorrow and today, that’s all it would take- and he can’t do it. Just an absence. Just an endless series of masks, gaudy and painted to cover up the nothingness behind them.

“You’re gonna be so miserable, without something to do. I know I would. If you really can’t take it any longer...I kinda hope somebody would do the same for me, some time.” 

So warm here: but any moment now there’ll be a cold, cold plunge of steel against his skin, and then through it- whimpering, he tumbles himself over Dalton. MacGyver hisses, reaches out a hand. 

A pillow smacks him in the face. 

“You know, we never used to be this violent in bed,” Jack says. Keeps whacking MacGyver with the pillow, until the assassin falls off onto the floor.

"Were you just pretending to be asleep?"

“Good thing too! Whatever else Murdoc is, you can’t fault him for loyalty. Look at him taking care of Ashton all those years, look at him taking us back.”

“That doesn’t make him an ethical person. Just a massively hypocritical one,” MacGyver points out, crossing his arms (evidently, he thinks that reacting would be beneath him). “Jack, c’mon. Who even is Murdoc, if he’s not an assassin?”

“I dunno. I know he doesn’t. Know what, though? I bet it’s someone cute. Somebody who can maybe get to like taking it easy- remember, here at home? The place we wanted to be all those years? I think we ought to see what kind of person he’d turn out to be, with the right kind of treatment.”

“He doesn’t deserve any of that.”

“By that logic, neither do you.”

“I know that! But at least I’ve got the nerve to stick by my actions!”

“Then you go on and kill more people, whatever,” Jack says without interest. “Look. You want to tell Phoenix that Murdoc’s out of the Game for good? Fine. I’ll vouch for that.”

“If I tell them that and he comes back in, then not only do I go on the chopping block, you’ll probably get hauled in as well. And we’re talking about Murdoc here. You want to risk your neck on his self-control?”

Jack doesn’t even bother looking at him. “Yeah. I will.”

“For god’s sake. Why?”

How, Murdoc wonders, can MacGyver contrive to sound that plantitive and self-righteous simultaneously. 

“You don’t want to know.”

“Yes, I do.”

“Because right now, I love him better than I do you,” Jack says, simply. 

Murdoc gives up on the situation and hides under the bedclothes. This isn’t a situation he can process any longer. This assassin who he’s trained so perfectly, and who is now furious, jealous, and holding a horrifically oversharpened knife. 

A heavy weight rests against him. He wonders if that’s Jack’s body or his corpse. 

After a few minutes, when there’s a sigh of relief as the door shuts, it becomes evident that it’s the former. 

“Shhh,” Jack says, pulling the blankets away. “Shhh. It’s fine now, it’s okay. He’s gone.”

“This wasn’t supposed to happen. That ought to have been me.”

“He’ll be back. Trust me.”

“Suppose he’s not?”

“Then don’t you dare feel guilty about it, okay? I wish he’d had half the sense you did,” Jack says, cuddling him close. 

“But everything he said was right. And for me- to come between the two of you-”

“Was something he’s decided on, not us. Look...you’re doing the right thing, now. He’s not.”

“And who is you, might I ask? Or rather, I?”

“Good question. Suppose we start with your name, huh?”

He lacks the willpower to deny even that. “Winifred Cooke.”

“That,” Jack says, after a decided pause, “is even worse than Angus MacGyver. Yeesh. Forget that, we’re sticking with Murdoc for you...see? Not everything has to change. And you’re a pilot now, don’t forget. And don’t think I’ve missed all those faxes you’ve been sending Becky, or that concerto you were working on. All this stuff that doesn’t have anything to do with working for HIT at all...”

He rests, spent, while Jack softly outlines somebody else for him to be. An idealised version of himself that’s so domestic, it makes his skin crawl with embarrassment. It’s absurd, to hand over his sense of self like this. 

MacGyver was a better agent than he'd ever dreamed. Having the strength to leave this behind.

Because this surrender?

It's just so very peaceful...


End file.
